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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

  1. cells

    January 16, 2010 by Mathew Ferguson

    now at 26, realising I haven’t learnt much of use
    to me, to the world, to people now or people to come
    realising that all I’ve done is empty my easily emptied head
    all the maths and history is history
    all the physics and geography is … history, too.
    all the words and sentences are … history,
    history of throwing away all that was given to me
    without even looking at it!

    sometimes, if I sit really still,
    and I sit still a lot, now,
    I can hear the thwock, thwock, thwock
    of two lone braincells, bouncing my one and only
    good thought back and forth
    in the murmur of their muted conversation
    I hear them talk about their lost friends
    and then I feel sad and guilty
    because their friends weren’t lost!
    They didn’t just walk off with no map
    or take a wrong turn in an unfamiliar place.
    I hustled them out the door, threw them out of windows
    machine-gunned entire cathedrals of their buddies who
    were innocently praying.
    poisoned wells and starved, stabbed and otherwise
    annihilated in every possible way, their friends.
    They sit and thwock thwock thwock the good thought
    back and forth, unaware that it is the their destruction, and mine
    that I have in mind.


  2. break the law

    January 14, 2010 by Mathew Ferguson

    break the law
    so nice
    to kiss
    and break the law


  3. thinking about tuna

    December 26, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    it was a place where butterflies felt safe
    wild green and so alive
    a place where a cat could spend an afternoon
    lazing on the bricks and thinking about tuna


  4. another girl

    December 9, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    after my 23rd breakup
    with another girl
    whose name my housemates
    never bothered to learn.

    after it, I’m standing in my room
    looking at the pillowcase slipping
    off the pillow
    and looking at my feet, scrunching my toes
    in the rug a girl, Karen, gave me.

    by the bed is a lamp, a gift from another
    one my dad said was a ‘nice girl’
    he didn’t know she ate dinner
    and then ate in reverse
    hating herself
    I didn’t know, either.

    in my room there are drawers
    each full of arguments
    bottles of girlfriend tears
    collected over three years
    parcels of guilt, boxes of sex hidden
    under the bed,
    sometimes alone in the bed,
    but not often alone,
    I open one of those boxes expecting
    xxxsex-fucking-shimmy-flingxxx
    but oh, what a mistake!
    each box of sex comes with
    aching tinfoil guilt, and sorrowful tears.


  5. the french girl and her lover

    December 2, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    she thought often of where he might have been during her life, before they met

    when she was ten and on the school camp she had forgotten her toothpaste and her so-called best friend refused to share even a tiny drop and she had sobbed as she scrubbed her teeth with only water

    when she was twenty two on the third day of lectures at university and the boy behind her had leaned forward and whispered in her ear to borrow a pencil and the soft touch of his breath had sent a rush of heat down her neck

    when she was twenty seven and rushing around the very same city as him and oh, how close they were at some of the same bars and cafes and they had been to the same exhibition and perhaps had passed on the stairs but would not come to know of their almost meetings for two more years

    every now and then she would think fiercely, trying with utmost conviction and power to send thoughts back in time to herself at those younger ages

    the thoughts were sometimes reassurances that love was coming, wait, wait and it would be here soon enough

    other times they were clear instructions to detour from examining the lines of paint, to lift your head! look around! he’s right behind you!

    they had met at a ridiculous gallery opening and because neither mentioned their secret conviction of their shared destiny they didn’t talk about feeling compelled to attend, about having many opportunities to bail out, about obstacles hurdled so they could both be in a same place at the same time


  6. put myself back together

    November 16, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    slowly in the pool I drifted in the glutinous waters
    slippery and sliding down and up and down and up
    and she looked to find herself and some other people
    who might have been her, too, and maybe she found them
    and maybe she didn’t,
    but she seemed a little happy for a little time
    a little sliver of a moment, a glowing spark shot through
    her clouded and confidence drugged mind,
    and I, I felt doomed.
    I warned her and she laughed, and thought my arrogance
    incredible. Then just a short time later, she was crying
    naked, crying and begging as I hurriedly buttoned and zipped
    and put myself back together.


  7. Sand People

    November 10, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    remember that day the sand people rose up on Squeaky Beach?
    and we had to fight our way out because they were crazy angry about all the trespassing and the smushing of sand people into sand-castles
    and that sand person kept yelling about how we’d like it being made into architecture

    i’ve got those photos we took after and my t-shirt you sewed up later is torn in the photos and your face is all red and we’re totally covered in sand and our plastic shovels are cracked and notched from all the battling to get back to the car-park
    i think maybe we were the happiest ever right then, fighting the sand people


  8. leaping in love

    October 21, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    it doesn’t seem right
    to call it
    falling in love

    i prefer to say
    leaping

    at least that way
    i can pretend
    i had a choice


  9. i dreamt of you

    October 20, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    dreamtofyou

    an illustrated poem


  10. little pirates

    October 17, 2009 by Mathew Ferguson

    taken hostage by two little pirates
    who insisted on a kiss apiece
    dragged under the table to watch
    the feet of the big people
    hiding with my captors
    who then smuggled me out the front door
    around a corner and to a secluded grove
    my hanging place, my electric chair, my steel table,
    they took what they wished
    and kissed